


Let's Talk About Sex

by notabadday, reyofhope



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6045424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notabadday/pseuds/notabadday, https://archiveofourown.org/users/reyofhope/pseuds/reyofhope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Simmons talks to Fitz about sex, and one time she doesn’t need to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Time

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [this interview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_mSh4hq5TY), and we've pretty much been working on it since we first watched it.
> 
> Chapter 1, 'First Time' written by [notabadday](http://archiveofourown.org/users/notabadday).

They are sitting cross-legged on Fitz’s poorly made bed surrounded by a mass of books haphazardly marking the pages of other books, all with brightly colored markers poking out of them. Key texts sit open in their laps, with discarded highlighter pens lying in the folds. Neither Fitz nor Simmons has taken much notice of their reading material for quite a while; they are instead caught up in conversation, which was perhaps inevitable after a whole afternoon apart.

 As she finishes retelling the story of an uncomfortable run-in with their professor that had lasted just long enough for his toupee to slowly detach from his head, Simmons melodramatically insists: “It was up there with the first post-coital moments of my young life in terms of awkwardness and I’m not kidding, Fitz!”

 He blushes a little and in the ensuing silence Simmons’ curiosity piques.

 “Have I told you about that?” she says with a certain degree of faux airiness, knowing the answer but looking to provoke a reaction. “My first time,” she clarifies, watching his expression carefully. “Funny old story.”

 Fitz looks up at her and for a long while just wonders what the hell he should do. He’s been a little curious – emphasis on the little – but always assumed this could never possibly come up. They were friends, best friends even, but how does it come up? With Simmons, though, he never quite knew what to expect.

 “It was right before I came here. We were partnered up in chem lab from time to time. He liked to make a lot of puns about our ‘chemistry’,” she gestures air quotes, “and I… well, I guess I was more interested in the _biology_ of it.”

 Fitz looks at her, a smirk creeping in.

 “Mock all you like, Fitz – he loved that line,” Simmons says, laughing. “I was very popular with the boys at university, I’ll have you know.”

 He thinks about smiling, giving her a grin that says too much. He doesn’t. He can’t. Repressing the truth is a reflex. Fitz raises his eyebrows and leaves it at that.

 “Anyway,” she continues, “it was after class and he was flirting, probably, and I wound up saying that if he got, you know, _checked out_ , we could perhaps have sex. I was… curious.” She shakes her head, a little self-conscious. “Three days go by. I totally forget, he… doesn’t. He came back and put these test results in my hand.”

 “Oh, wow. This might be the most romantic tale I’ve ever heard, Simmons,” Fitz says, relaxing into the story enough to tease her. “Forget roses and chocolates. St Valentine himself should be taking notes from this guy.”

 “Hey, he was clean and polite and he had quite nice hair and, well, that’s all a girl really needs.”

 “That has not been my experience.”

 Simmons smiles.

 After a pause, perhaps a moment too long thinking about Fitz’s offhand remark, she continues with her tale: “He bought me a thank you pizza afterwards. It was really weird. And it just showed up as I was getting out of the shower. I was surprised he was even still there. But he’d got a Hawaiian, and you know I-”

 “-hate pineapple.”

 “So I didn’t eat a bite of it. He just sat in my room eating an entire pizza on his own and asking for feedback.”

 “Feedback?” Fitz grimaces.

 “He wouldn’t leave. Eventually, to get rid of him, I popped some crumpets in the toaster under the guise of, well, not having anything else to eat and turned the knob up to the highest setting…”

 “You set the smoke alarm off?”

 She nods. “He walked out with the pizza box under his arm and we never spoke of it again. _Never_.” Her eyes widen.

 “Never?”

 Simmons scrunches her face.

 There’s a pause. It’s an opening for him to offer a similar anecdote of his own. She waits and waits, assured enough by their closeness to think he will requite her storytelling, offer up some awkward tale involving a girl he grew up with back home. Simmons conjures an image of some girl-next-door type making doe-eyes at Fitz as he tutors her on basic physics. Fitz looks away, suddenly fascinated by the page of the mechatronics textbook he’s holding unusually close to his face.

 “Sorry, is it weird for me to talk about this stuff?”

 He stutters a little.

 “I just… like talking to you,” she confesses. It’s Simmons who avoids eye contact now, thumbing through the hardback closest to her on the bed. It’s one of his but she realizes a beat too late and can’t bring herself to awkwardly reach out to the _Principles of Biochemistry_ edition that his knee is resting against.

 “No, Simmons, I…” He thinks about explaining that he doesn’t have the anecdote she’s asking for but gets embarrassed. Quickly, concerned that she feels humiliated, he reassures her: “We can talk about anything you like. I like your stories. There’s nothing you could tell me about yourself that I… wouldn’t want to hear.”

 “Sometimes I forget you haven’t heard them all already. Feels like you’ve been around forever.”

 “Only a few months,” he says idly, not meaning to correct her.

 “Yeah, it’s so weird,” she muses. After a beat, Simmons perks up with an idea. “Hey, do you want to share a pizza?”

 “Go on then.”

 “Ham and mushroom?”

 “Mmm. Sounds perfect.”


	2. Boyfriend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2, 'Boyfriend' written by [krasinskisaurus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/krasinskisaurus).

She’s there when he gets home.

It’s a lovely surprise to find Simmons lounging on his tiny single bed, her ankles swinging in greeting. His dorm room was beginning to look painfully empty without her.

“Hi Fitz! Sorry for letting myself in.”

“You’ve done far worse,” he chuckles, throwing his coat over the chair that doubles as his wardrobe. “I just presumed you’d be with your boyfriend tonight.”

Simmons pulls her shoulders up in a vague shrug and goes back to idly skimming through _Fundamentals of Biochemistry_. One of her swinging ankles connects with a comic book lying at the foot of his bed and sends it to the floor.

“Hey, watch that!” Fitz scurries to retrieve _Captain America, Issue #7_ and blows imaginary dust off its cover. He stares up at Simmons in indignation as she continues to flick through the pages with exasperating nonchalance. “Is everything okay with Rick, anyway?”

If there’s resentment in his voice – petty, childish and worst of all, entirely subconscious – he doesn’t recognise it.

“Things with _Nick_ are fine, thank you. Splendid, in fact. Super. A-ok.”

“Jesus, have you been watching _Thunderbirds_ or something?’

His tone is playful – their dynamic thrives on light, mutual teasing – yet Fitz instantly knows something is wrong because in lieu of a smile, she gives him a withering look and Jemma Simmons does not _glare_ at anybody. Least of all him.

“I didn’t come here to be bullied.”

Fitz heaves a long sigh and settles next to Simmons on the bed, his feet dangling off the edge and harmonising with the pendulum swing of hers.

“Do you want to talk about it?" 

“Yes please.” Simmons’s reply comes much too quickly and her body language shifts. She shuts the book with a snap and a sudden enthusiasm in order to face him completely, and Fitz already realizes his mistake when –

“Nick and I finally had sex last night.”

Fitz chokes on nothing.

Simmons raises an eyebrow, a nervous half-smile playing at her lips, and gives what is presumably intended as a reassuring thump on his back. In spite of this, he eventually coughs his way towards composure.

“Right,” Fitz wheezes. “Cool. So you consummated-”

“ _Consummated_?” Simmons is laughing in earnest now. “Really, Fitz? Did you have a comfortable journey from the 19 th century?”

“Who’s the bully now?!”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that… it didn’t go particularly well. It took him a while to,” she begins gesticulating wildly, “get there.”

“Was he stuck in traffic?”

This time, Simmons doesn’t even satisfy his wisecrack with a glare.

“He wasn’t very _excitable_ ,” she tries again, with a maddeningly patient air.

An increasingly uncomfortable Fitz has taken to alphabetically sorting all of the places he would rather be right now. Simmons misinterprets his silence as deliberate awkwardness.

“Oh my god, Fitz! Fine: he couldn’t get _aroused_. And statistically, I know that this can sporadically affect about 10% of the US male population, but I was a little worried just in case it was something I did or didn’t do or what have you...”

Fitz has only reached the Bermuda Triangle on his list, when he relaxes. Jemma is oddly fixated by a loose thread on her (his) cardigan and as it continues to fray, Fitz notices her self-confidence unravelling a little too. Jemma Simmons has always been so quietly and admirably sure of her own brilliance – the girl who could do anything. He’s never really thought of her vulnerabilities until now.

“That’s, erm –” he clears his throat. “Jem, you’re – what I mean to say is… Don’t worry about that. It wasn’t you.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t confess how he has to consciously regulate his breathing when she so much as brushes past his arm; how, when she hugs him, he experiences all the symptoms associated with a stroke. With this, Simmons gives Fitz one of her shy smiles, hesitant at first, until her nose wrinkles in genuine affection and his chest constricts in reply. _No. It definitely wasn’t Jemma_.

“Anyway, after all of the bodily mishaps, we did eventually _get there_. The rhythm was a little off but it was our first time together: it was bound to be messy, right?” she continues, as though Fitz has any form of experience in the matter.

“I mean, my dopamine levels were extraordinarily sub-par and it was all over rather quickly – didn’t even last a song, actually – but I guess the thing is…” A pause; Fitz expects the worst. “We just weren’t in sync. Like … the way you know exactly how to brew my tea, depending on what kind of day I’ve had… ”

Neither of them speaks for a while, leaving Fitz to silently contemplate the implication that he is better at making tea than her boyfriend is at having sex. There’s so much he could say; he settles on what he should.

“Maybe – maybe you should try again. Chemistry isn’t always instantaneous.”

 _Not like us_. 

“A repeated experiment can sometimes change –”

“– the outcome,” she finishes his sentence and practically beams at him. “Thanks Fitz.”

Simmons uncrosses her legs and moves to get up from his bed, causing Fitz to splutter. “I didn’t mean right this second! Let it, erm, marinate for a bit first, maybe?”

“Well, seeing as I’m having sex and not making a stew, Fitz, I’m not sure that ‘marinating’ is particularly essential. Anyway, I was actually just grabbing this” – she gestures towards the _X-Files_ boxset poking out from her bag. “Up for an episode or two?”

An episode or two soon becomes four.

But by time they reach ‘The Post-Modern Prometheus’, Simmons has all but forgotten her tradition of religiously pointing out scientific inaccuracies and has instead taken to sending furtive glances at her phone.

“Did he text you?” 

Simmons fidgets beside him. “Mhm. He wants to talk. But-”

“It’s okay,” he says kindly. “The truth will still be out there tomorrow.” 

Fitz waggles his eyebrows, causing Simmons to laugh gently. “Are you sure?”

 Drama is the only subject Fitz ‘failed’ at school (‘ _B+_ – _Leopold is an exemplary student but he often struggles to express himself_ ’) but he desperately hopes the small smile he gives is convincing.

 And it does seem good enough for Simmons, who is ablaze with nervous energy as she practically bounces out of Fitz’s room with a “Can’t wait! See you tomorrow!”

 He can’t help but call out to her.

 “Hey, Jem?” She pauses to lean on the doorframe, looking unfairly angelic and against his better judgement, Fitz almost, _almost_ asks her to stay. “Um… good luck.”

 He means it. It doesn’t matter how much it hurts to say or how much his smile now resembles a grimace: he’ll always mean it. Simmons throws an impossibly wide smile over her shoulder and turns on her heel to head down the hallway.

 Fitz is left with a dull ache, ‘Walking in Memphis’, and Mulder and Scully dancing on the TV screen.

 He puts it on standby.


	3. Rebound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, 'Rebound' written by [notabadday](http://archiveofourown.org/users/notabadday).
> 
> *Note from notabadday: I know I'm late with my Cosmic Love chapter but I promise it is coming very shortly. I haven't had so much time to write fic lately, so the next chapter has taken a little longer that I'd have liked but it _is_ on the way. (My chapters of this fic were written some months ago so you don't have to worry here.)

The unlaundered dress Simmons had picked out so eagerly the night before now sticks to her uncomfortably; the smell of dried sweat permeates the fabric, and she winces at the feel of it against her skin. She’s grabbing her jacket, bag and panties from various spots on the otherwise spotless floor when a confused Superman lookalike stirs in the bed.

 “Well, that was very… pleasant,” Simmons assures him cheerfully, gathering her things in her hands as she walks towards the door, a little thrown that he’s woken up already. “Thank you.”

 She’s out of there before he can utter a syllable, his mouth hanging agape as his brain attempts to formulate a verbal response. Staring at the closed door, he drowsily replies, “You’re welcome?”

 Simmons thinks about a shower, a change of clothes and the comfort of her own bed. She does _think_ about all of that. But Fitz’s dorm is closer, the closest block to where the S.H.I.E.L.D. Operations guys are situated. That’s all it is: convenience. He’s always muttering about “hideously muscular, small-minded” ops students breaking in to mess with the fire alarm in his building. Such is the hardship of drawing the short straw when it comes to dorm rooms. 

She bursts through his door just as Fitz is pouring boiling water from the kettle into the Curious George mug she bought him the previous Christmas. It’s been glued back together once already, though the patch-up job Fitz has done with it is so masterfully imperceptible that no one would ever know. He’s wearing grandpa slippers and a tartan dressing gown he hasn’t realized he’s outgrown, and suddenly she knows what she’s buying him for his birthday.

 His head turns at the sound of familiar footsteps and a smile is on his lips at the sight of her. He’s surprised though, and rushes to ask, “Are you okay?”

 “I just had sex.”

 Softer, Fitz repeats, “Are you okay?” It’s all he can think to say.

 She gives a relaxed nod, nonchalantly dropping her bag onto the counter of his kitchenette. “Well, _last night_. You know, that chap, Mark? From ops. Feels a little dirty, like sleeping with the enemy.”

 Fitz’s brow furrows. “Matt?” Or, as Fitz thinks of him, the reason he’s had to rewire the smoke detector three times this semester.

 “ _Matt_. Incredible physique, and a proficient lover. Experienced, you know? Obviously. But it was rather nice,” Simmons tells him jovially, a lightness to her admission that Fitz finds himself admiring.

 He watches her help herself to his cookie jar, picking out an Oreo. She then gestures for him to take a cookie too, so he reaches blindly, drawing out one of the custard creams his mother sent over in a care package, before dipping it into a milky tea.

 “Do you think you’ll see him again?” he asks, mustering every ounce of deception in his body to conceal the loadedness of his question.

She thinks about it for a moment, taking an eager bite out of her Oreo, before breezily replying, “Unlikely.”

 “Why’s that?”

 “I guess it was kind of a rebound, you know, after Nick. He didn’t have a whole lot going on up there,” Simmons says, tapping her finger to her temple. “Not the foggiest idea what I was talking about half the time. No, no…” she laughs to herself, “Very much a _physical_ attraction, Mark and I.”

 “Matt,” Fitz corrects her under his breath. His bitterness remains poorly concealed but, miraculously, Simmons remains oblivious.

 “At one point,” she continues, either ignoring it or unaware of his comment, “we were talking about historical figures of influence and so, _of course_ , I started talking about Peggy Carter. He,” she pauses to shake her head with a scoff of a laugh, “didn’t know who she was.”

 “ _Peggy Carter_? Founder of S.H.I.E.L.D.?” Fitz is incredulous. “Most important person in the history of this organization? Biggest frame on your wall of inspirational women, Peggy Carter?”

 “ _I know!_ ”

 “I can’t believe you slept with him after that.”

 Simmons rolls her eyes. “What can I say? It’s been a dry spell of late.”

 He thinks about teasingly offering his services to prevent future incidents of this nature, but she continues before he gets a chance to stumble into unknown territory.

 “In his defense, he may not have been an expert in S.H.I.E.L.D. history but he did have… _other_ skills. I have no complaints,” she insists, before giving a little shrug and reaching back into the cookie jar. As she takes her pick of the contents, instinctively leaving the last of Fitz’s custard creams, she hastens to add: “I did quickly print off a copy of my _Examining Peggy Carter_ essay from first year on his laptop and leave it on the nightstand.”

“Which version?”

“The version before you took a sledgehammer to it to get it inside the word count. The _better_ version,” she answers, punctuating her sentence with a bite into another Oreo.


	4. Almost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4, 'Almost' written by [notabadday](http://archiveofourown.org/users/notabadday).

Her lipstick has smeared across the pale blue cotton of his shirt, crimson red sunk deep into the fabric. He’ll struggle to get it out. His favorite shirt ruined by their _almost_ mistake.

 It’s the first thing Simmons notices when she stirs, drowsily lifting her head from his chest to establish her surroundings. She doesn’t want to look up at his face, mortified as the night before comes back in flashes, but she knows exactly where she is. His model TARDIS sits on a shelf in her line of view beside a ragged stuffed monkey that she assumes he’s had since childhood, and she can see half-finished pieces of tech lying across his desk under a wall of unframed photographs. It’s not like she doesn’t know every inch of this room by now, _his_ room.

 “Jem…” he says, but it’s groggy and rough and exactly how she feels.

 “Mmm,” Simmons moans. She presses her forefinger to her temple and grimaces. “So, last night was, uh-”

 They wince at each other in sync, before he mercifully assures her, “We don’t have to talk about it.” If she were looking, she’d see his eyes tell the secret of a broken heart.

 “We should. Talk about it, that is,” Simmons begins, her words an odd mix of enthusiasm and reluctance. Apologies come spilling out of her, dazed and messy. Too drunk, too forward, too whatever: she’s sorry; it won’t happen again. Or _almost_ happen again.

 Fitz can only remember – can’t seem to forget – how she’d looked in that little black dress with crimson lips and all that confidence. The ghost of a feeling lingers: her hands flat against his chest, decisively pushing him onto the bed as he’d just marveled at the miracle of whatever might be about to happen. That feeling of _almost_ is enough; her lying with him in the harsh light of morning is enough.

“I don’t know what came over me, honestly. I don’t want you to feel… uncomfortable. I know it maybe seemed… weird?” Simmons says wearily, awkwardly, before suddenly her eyes settle on his. “I really don’t want to make things weird between us; we work together, we’re friends – _best friends_. And you’re… You’re so important to me, Fitz.”

“It’s okay,” he reassures her, and his façade of ease seems to appease her.

Self-conscious in his view, Simmons looks away and is reminded of the lipstick stain. He follows her eyes, noticing it for the first time but holding back any visible reaction. It’s undoubtedly his favorite shirt, indistinguishable from his many other blue shirts to anyone else, but by far the most comfortable, flattering fit. Simmons always knows Fitz has assigned significance to an event if he dusts off this particular blue shirt. The previous evening, the sight of him wearing it, with no special occasion barring their going out for dinner together, which is by no means uncommon, had been the only reason she’d dug out her rather slinky black dress. It hadn’t been over-thought, or really thought through at all, it just happened.

She’s over-thinking it in hindsight, desperately sad to think of him regretting taking that shirt off of its hanger and cursing herself to have spoilt it for him. The idea that he might stop wearing it troubles her more than she understands. She met him in that blue shirt, first day of the academy. It’s an important shirt.

Simmons gestures to the cursed lipstick stain, smudged bold red. “I’m so sorry. I think I’ve got a solution that’ll get that out.” And a hint of pride creeps back into her voice. “One I made myself. If it doesn’t work I can just make another.”

He shakes his head and shrugs, because it doesn’t matter. Or because it does. But there’s no easy way to explain wanting to save the mark of your best friend’s lips, so he’ll just have to let her wash it away.


	5. Roommate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Five, 'Roommate', written by krasinskisaurus

 

  
  


Fitz doesn’t make a particular habit of being outwitted by the iPhone autocorrect system; in fact, he makes it a point of pride to master any software readily accessible by people over the age of 65. Yet the simple addition of Simmons transforms the equation completely. Fitz becomes someone who sends unfinished texts in bursts of nervous excitement, who accidentally tags themselves in Facebook profile pictures from 2007 – because texting her makes him feel like he holds the answers to the universe, if only his bloody hands would stop shaking long enough to write them down.

He figures that just comes with the territory of having a best friend capable of scattering you entirely.

This latest phone faux pas takes its place on his ever-expanding list of embarrassments and Fitz resigns himself to another week of self-imposed awkwardness, as he drops the useless device to the floor with a dull thud.

Only, the thuds continue, reverberating throughout the room from the direction of the window. Fitz sluggishly clambers out of bed and heads to the source of the noise, and through the smudged, decades-old glass, he is met by the most glorious lawn decoration he could possibly imagine.  
Standing there in a onesie and giraffe slippers is Jemma Simmons: precisely the only person on the planet Fitz wants to have throwing stones at his window at 3am. He doesn’t miss a beat before beginning to heave the window open and the almighty screech of rotten wood coincides with Simmons’s yelp of “SORRY,” as a pebble grazes the shell of Fitz’s right ear and hits the wall behind him.

“What are you doing here?!” he shouts down to her, unable to mask the delight in his voice. “You know, aside from ‘to stone me to death’.”

“I am so sorry about that but I’ve just escaped mating season at the zoo and it’s made me a little loopy. Fancy providing some refuge up there?”

“I’m not Rapunzel!”

“Leopold, Leopold, let down your hair!” Her accompanying giggle cuts through the crisp night air and Fitz’s eyes close involuntarily. Blissfully.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says with playful exasperation. “Why didn’t you go through the bloody front door?”

“It’s locked–”

“And how many times have you broken into my room?”

“There’s overnight security–”

“If you mean Frank, then the poor guy wouldn’t notice an intrusion if it slapped him in the face and stole all his furniture.”

A loud scraping comes from the room next to Fitz and they’re soon joined by his neighbour, Brett – president of the much-beleaguered ‘Pot-Smokers Liberation Front’ and owner of one too many Bob Marley posters.

“Look Dickens, can you and your girlfriend perform Romeo and Juliet somewhere else? It’s 3 in the fucking morning, bro.”

Fitz is busy spluttering that _Simmons isn’t my girlfriend: she’s just a friend who’s a girl – woman, in fact_ and _Approximately how much weed do you have to smoke to think that Charles Dickens had anything to do with Romeo and Juliet?_ but Brett has already shut his window and left the stench of marijuana in his wake.

“Is he going to stop offering you brownies now?” comes Simmons’s soft voice, sheepish grin in tow.

“Regretfully, no. Come on, you,” he says with a mock sigh. “Knowing your aim, you’ve probably woken up the entire floor already.”

“Hey!”

But Fitz has already thrown his key down to an unsuspecting Simmons who, with all the coordination of a deer on ice, scrambles to catch it and misses.

“Oh bugger!” comes her voice, now muffled in the midst of the shrubbery, and Fitz turns away from the window with every intention of finding a torch, until he is struck by a peculiarly urgent need to tidy his room. Something he hasn’t attempted for a good four months.

Simmons has witnessed his room at its best, decked out in its entirety like the Mos Eisley cantina, and (thanks to last summer’s lab rat infestation) at its worst too, so as he brushes a dozen unfurled chargers under his bed and throws a half-eaten box of Pop Tarts – _“It’s a cake, Fitz. You are literally microwaving a cake and calling it breakfast”_ – into the nearest drawer, Fitz briefly wonders why his somewhat latent desire to impress Simmons has suddenly manifested into a budget Mary Poppins impersonation.

But the thought doesn’t linger and he soon becomes so engrossed in arranging the books on his bedside table into chronological order of scientific discovery that he barely notices when, some thirty minutes later, Simmons quietly opens his bedroom door.

“Thanks for the assistance, Rapunzel.”

Fitz hears her before he sees her, whirling around as a biography of Rosalind Franklin prompts a domino effect of falling books by his feet.

“Sorry, I got distracted…It didn’t take you _this_ long to find that key, did it?”

“Please! Once I eventually unearthed the key you so kindly hurled at me, I got into a lovely chat with Frank. Think I may have accidentally agreed to have tea with his granddaughter but at least I managed to convince him that I live here!”

“Tricking an 80-year-old man with only one functioning eardrum into believing you live in a _boys_ -only dorm? Jemma Simmons has finally gone rogue.”

The quip earns him a well-rehearsed eye roll and playful hit to the forearm as Simmons fully enters the room and heads straight for the chest of drawers.

“Why are there Pop Tarts in your sock drawer?”

“Why are _you_ in my sock drawer?”

“Aha – logical fallacy! Tu quoque!” she exclaims, brandishing the fluffiest pair of socks Fitz owns as though challenging him to a duel. “We could continue to debate the contents of your sock drawer all night or alternatively, we could go to sleep?” Simmons says sweetly before transitioning into her best attempt at an American accent. _“It’s 3 in the morning, bro.”_

“Yeah, man. I have to be up early tomorrow for a class on _Misappropriating Rastafarianism_.”

Simmons is shining with glee as she hops from one foot to the next to put on her newly stolen socks and Fitz forces himself to turn away, locking his door and hitting the light switch in one fell swoop.

“Wow, 8 unread messages from you – am I in trouble?”

The jolt of momentary relief he feels at this news is quickly eclipsed by the fact that Jemma Simmons is in his bed. Illuminated only by the pale artificial light of her phone screen, she has the covers pulled up to her chin, with his threadbare toy monkey, Alfred, tucked comfortably under her arm. He’s dumbfounded for the third time that night.

“Umm, I don’t have a sleeping bag” is the nonsensical response he plumps for.

“What are you on about?” She pokes her head out from the duvet cocoon, eyebrow quirked in curiosity and not looking unlike Fitz’s childhood pet tortoise.

“I mean… to sleep on the floor, I don’t have a sleeping bag.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m not kicking you out of your own bed! We can both fit. We, umm… have before.”

The edge of shyness that sneaks into Simmons’ voice at the mention of their last bedroom encounter strangely rallies Fitz, as though seeking to restore the equilibrium of confidence between the two of them. He walks steadily towards the bed but his newfound bravery doesn’t quite make it underneath the covers: he opts to lie so close to the edge that his right foot can easily skim the carpet.

“See – comfy!”

Despite Fitz’s serious issues with the conclusion that this is “comfy” (in truth, his spine has begun to spasm), he remains stock still, arms frozen at his side as the fluff from Simmons’ onesie lightly dusts at his knuckles. All he can do is stare up at the vacuous ceiling, silently praying to any god who will listen that tonight won’t see the untimely revival of his childhood drooling habit.

“Okay, this is weird isn’t it?” The sudden, high-pitched uncertainty in Simmons’ voice and her accompanying sigh startles him back to reality. “I’ve just invited myself over and totally invaded your personal sleeping space – I’m sorry.”

“No! I–”

“Fitz, I’ve seen bodies with rigor mortis look more comfortable than you. Honestly, I’ll sleep on the floor. I don’t mind.”

Before Fitz fully recognises her change of heart, Simmons is unceremoniously clambering over him to exit the bed, but he flings out a hand in protest and it settles gently on the inside of her wrist.

“Stay. You should… stay.”

Scientific impossibilities abound from the point of contact: a bolt of electricity flows between them and the ensuing static from a simple touch is almost enough to make his brain short-circuit. The second Simmons is settled beside him once more, the elastic band around Fitz’s chest relaxes and he finally turns to face her.

“Fitz,” comes a whisper so delicate that he almost dismisses it as a figment of his imagination. She reaches out to brush a stray curl from his brow, like she has done countless times, but the sustained proximity as her hand traces his jawline, is something entirely new. Their faces are now impossibly close, swimming in and out of focus until Fitz feels Simmons’ breath cool his cheek.

“Goodnight.”

There’s a magically delirious quality to the early hours, a space between waking and dreaming that is safe from petty anxieties over sweaty palms and morning breath, as Fitz finds Simmons’ hand and laces their fingers together in uninhibited intimacy.

It anchors them until morning.


	6. Fitz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for the final chapter! Massive thank you to everyone for reading - we really appreciate it.  
> Here's Chapter Six, 'Fitz', written by krasinskisaurus.

Jemma wakes to a day of firsts and a face full of tight, curly hair. It’s the first time she’s shared her own bed with someone other than Dr Ted, her childhood teddy bear, but it also happens to be the first time she’s slept in past 9 in the morning. Jemma has been an early bird from a young age, whilst Fitz thrives on moonlight: stargazing and remapping the universe and inundating Jemma with 3am texts (reading them soon becomes her favourite part of waking up early). For two people ordinarily so aligned, it sometimes feels as though their orbits are predestined to _just_ miss one another. Until today.

For all the years of build-up, the breaking point seems so beautifully arbitrary now. Like the one degree change to reach boiling point; like the one inch between _just friends_ and more, before her lips bridged the gap to finally meet his.

Vivid memories from the early hours of this morning flash through her mind and Jemma allows herself a private moment of teenage giddiness, tightening her arms around the bare chest of her best friend, whose light snores are thankfully subdued by the pillow. She presses a series of gentle kisses to the nape of his neck, in a rush of affection rather than a serious intention to wake him (Fitz once slept soundly through the academy’s nuclear evacuation drill), but he begins to stir beneath her.  

“G’morning” comes a muffled grunt. Jemma kisses the shell of his ear in reply, eliciting a shiver.

“How did I end up as the little spoon?” Fitz drowsily addresses his pillow.

“Natural selection.”

Fitz lets out a throaty laugh at this and turns to face her, his eyes adjusting to the light. Yet Jemma continues her delicate path, lips brushing against day-old stubble until they reach the corner of his mouth and his calloused fingertips instinctively sweep at the curve of her jaw. It should feel rough, like sandpaper, but it’s Fitz, who has never been anything less than gentle in his life.

They fall into a natural rhythm: Jemma nestled in the crook of his neck, absent-mindedly twirling her fingers through his hair and Fitz tapping his thumb against her collar bone to stave off total silence. She can scarcely believe this easy domesticity they now find themselves in, after years of falling asleep together in public awkwardness and private longing and she can't help but smile. Gone are the days of being achingly aware of her own limbs to the point of insanity and measuring a safe distance from Fitz, only to break all her self-imposed rules.

 “You’re oddly quiet,” Fitz murmurs. “Everything okay?”

“I’m just happy,” Jemma says simply. “Very happy.”

He hums in agreement and drops a kiss to her forehead. His tapping evolves into tracing constellations across her skin, lulling her closer and closer to sleep. 

“Now, this is kind of awkward,” Fitz clears his throat, startling Jemma back to the present, “but you’re going to have to leave pretty soon.”

She props herself up on her elbow to give him a pointed look. “Oh, is that so?”

His poker face has already begun to crumble. “Yeah. You see, my best friend Jemma – you’d really like her actually – well, she is going to burst in at any minute to talk about the amazing sex she just had and I should probably be a good friend and listen.”

This earns Fitz a light swat on the arm.

 “Yeah, yeah. Keep dreaming.”

“So I had to hear about the multiple ways your ex-boyfriend’s anatomy used to conspire against him, but _now_ you’re revoking best friend privileges?!” Fitz is fully awake now, abuzz with mock indignation.

“Oh, I must be confused. Were you not _in_ this room last night?”

“Irrelevant,” he brushes off and flashes her a boyish grin. “I would like an unbiased opinion please." 

“You’re being so much like pizza boy right now,” Jemma sighs, the upward curve of her lips threatening to break into a fully formed smile at any moment. “At least I could get rid of him.”

“But did you give pizza boy feedback?”

“Oh Fitz,” she says, suddenly spying an opportunity. “Did I really not give you sufficient feedback last night?”

Bashful Leo Fitz never disappoints: blood rushes straight to his cheeks and he turns a delightful shade of crimson, mouth frozen in a rather comical ‘o’ shape.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

With one quick, chaste kiss to his parted lips, Jemma rolls out of bed in a rather ungainly fashion and pulls on the large NASA t-shirt Fitz has spent the past two years insisting he would grow into.

“Nothing’s changed, has it Jem?” he says in amused exasperation, sitting up in bed.

“Nope,” Jemma replies, cheerfully. “Except for – y’know – the sex.”

She doesn’t wait for visual confirmation of her second victory in as many minutes – Fitz’s audible spluttering of some half-baked comeback as she chuckles her way out of the bedroom is enough – and when Jemma returns two minutes later, it’s with two mugs of tea and a suitably smug grin.

He greets her with a lazy smile and “God, you’re my favourite person,” and it throws her completely. It’s the weight of his gaze, with such unabashed tenderness, that betrays the flippancy of the phrase; yet these heavy convictions feel weightless. Looks of utmost certainty can’t intimidate when they mirror your own.

“That was almost smooth, Fit-”

But Jemma’s still a little too flustered to register the obstacles in her path and her trailing foot catches on Fitz’s discarded pair of jeans, sending the two mugs flying into the air. The carpet carelessly breaks their fall with a smash.

“That… was less so,” he chuckles, jumping out of bed to help.

In a flash, Fitz is kneeling beside her and helping to gather the fragments of her novelty mug – ‘Hello. Is it tea you’re looking for?’ Their hands brush en route to the same piece of broken china and her skin tingles with all the promise of new beginnings.

“Don’t worry about old Lionel Richie: I’ve developed a new hybrid polymer adhesive that should Humpty Dumpty him back together again.”

All it takes is a brief glance at him, clad only in polka dot boxers and enthusiastically offering to superglue her Lionel Richie crockery back together, to overcome her. Jemma marvels at how she managed to keep all these feelings inside for so long and suddenly, she’s kissing him because she can; because she can finally make up for all this lost time. 

“I love you,” she whispers against his mouth. 

“I know,” he replies without missing a beat.

Jemma laughs instinctively into the kiss and he quickly follows suit. They break apart out of necessity, clambering back to their feet. “Alright, flyboy. I knew watching _Empire Strikes Back_ last night would give you delusions of grandeur.”

“Hmm. What would Your Worshipfulness say to a spot of _Return of the Jedi_?" 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

It’s an agonizing wait for Fitz to lean in and capture her bottom lip again (Jemma amuses herself with the thought that he’s deliberately trying to be cinematic), so she strains on her toes to meet him, feet sinking into the tea-stained carpet. His fingers venture beneath her t-shirt and ghost over her ribcage with uncharacteristic boldness, and her breath catches at the intimacy, both familiar and brand new. 

They spend this day of firsts discovering the new and relearning the old, until the lines blur irrevocably.

**Author's Note:**

> We hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading!


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